On Thursday, and heaven knows how Virginia fixed the tickets, they attended a royal garden party at Buckingham Palace, where Priscilla was presented to Princess Alexandra. In the evening, they dined with the Duke of Bridgwater and his eldest son, Bofie, who couldn’t take his eyes off Priscilla. In fact, Virginia had to warn him that despite her encouragement, he just might be overdoing it.

On Friday, Priscilla was so exhausted she spent the morning in bed, and was only just up in time to keep an appointment with her hairdresser, before going on in the evening to Covent Garden to see a production of Giselle.

On Saturday morning, they attended trooping the color, watching the ceremony from the Scottish Office overlooking Horse Guards. In the evening they had a quiet supper à deux at Virginia’s flat. “No one in London would dream of venturing out on a Saturday night,” she explained. “The streets are full of foreigners and visiting football hooligans.” But then Virginia had always intended to use that night to sow the first seeds of doubt in her friend’s mind.

“What a week,” said Priscilla as they sat down for supper. “What fun, and to think that tomorrow I have to go back to Mablethorpe.”

“You don’t have to go back,” said Virginia.

“But Robert is expecting me.”

“Is he? Frankly, would he even notice if you were to spend a few more days in London?”

Priscilla put down her knife and fork, clearly considering the proposition. In truth, Virginia didn’t want her to remain in London a day longer, as she was exhausted and had nothing planned for the following week.

“Have you ever thought about leaving Robert?” asked Virginia as Morton refilled Priscilla’s wine glass.

“Regularly. But how could I possibly survive without him?”

“Rather well, I suspect. After all, you have a lovely home in The Boltons, not to mention—”

“But it’s not mine.”

“It could be,” said Virginia, warming to her task.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you read that article about Robert in the business section of the Telegraph a couple of weeks ago?”

“I never read the business section of any paper.”

“Well, it was most illuminating. It seems that Bingham’s Fish Paste is valued at around fifteen million, with no debts and healthy cash reserves.”

“But if I left Robert, I wouldn’t want anything to do with the company.”

“You wouldn’t have to have anything to do with it. Mablethorpe Hall, The Boltons, and your villa in the South of France, not to mention the three million sitting in the company’s bank account, would still be less than fifty percent of what he’s worth. And fifty percent is what you could expect after twenty-six years of marriage and a son you virtually brought up on your own because of all those hours your husband spent away from home, pursuing his career.”